


Shedding Scales

by quarterweeb



Category: A Heist With Markiplier, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Ending 27: When Will You Learn?, Ending 31: Ignorance is Bliss, Gen, I mean it's AHWM it'd be weird if it wasn't reader-insert, Reader-Insert, Time Loop, Uhhhh idk what else to tag this with sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 12:20:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21253295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quarterweeb/pseuds/quarterweeb
Summary: You get the last ending first, and it's all downhill from there.-Pretty much a dramatic re-write of Ending 31: Ignorance is Bliss, with some other stuff thrown in because I was feeling dangerous last night.





	Shedding Scales

**Author's Note:**

> I swore I would not go back to writing about YouTubers and yet HERE WE ARE! Look, it was like 1 a.m. and I finished all of AHWM in one day and I just needed to expel those feelings.

You don't remember meeting Mark.

You've tried before. Sure, Mark's told you everything you needed to know about how you met--growing up two doors down from each other, riding your bikes and involving yourselves in petty larceny; turning to crime when college didn't pan out; making the plan for this, perhaps your biggest heist job yet. But hearing it and knowing it are two entirely different things.

Looking into your past is like looking into a yawning abyss, and you've never stared deep enough to let it stare back. You've got an exciting life, and a faithful friend, and why would you want to change that?

But when Mark picks up The Box, you see it--reality bending and shifting around you unnaturally. You're struck with an odd sense of wrongness. But the alarms start blaring, and you don't want to confront those feelings in a prison cell, so you tell Mark to move aside the fancy sewer cover and get down there.

Your hair is standing on end, but it's not from the fear of the guards sniffing you out. There's a roiling feeling in your gut like seasickness. You turn for a moment and Mark has already changed into his cover clothes for your escape (why'd he bring the suit? wouldn't it be more inconspicuous to dress normally?) and you're distracted by the sight of a man running from something and screaming all the way.

Mark asks which way to go in the sewers, towards the darkness, or into the light. It's clear which way he wants to go, but The Box is heavy in your satchel, and you follow your instincts. Mark's not happy about it, but he trusts you. You know that. Don't you?

The sewers are a labyrinth, and Mark is the golden thread that you cling to, the only solid thing in a world that shifts at a glance. The more he insists you split up, the more adamant you become about sticking together. Why does he want to run from you, anyways? Whatever is down here, you'll confront it together, or not at all.

At least, that's your thought, until you creep through the cult's Party City-stocked hideout and discover the sign. Mark is almost gleeful, and you have a gut feeling that this is the place where you _have_ to split up. So you nod him off, and turn to go back the other way, and--

Another place, unfamiliar to you. Certainly not the cult hideout, not what should be behind you. Instead of animal bones and ritual stones, a hallway lined with defaced (or, "de-eyed," perhaps) paintings is before you. Their voices call to you, raspy and mournful and gravelly and just a tiny bit off, and you wonder how the hell you can hear them when you've never seen these people before.

**Aren't you tired of it?**  
** Don't you feel like you're running in circles?**  
** No one seems to question it.**  
** But I thought you'd see through it.**

Your eyes linger on the last painting. Its eyes are crossed out, just like all the rest, but on this one a comically large pink mustache has been doodled onto the man's face. It feels somehow sinister, despite how bright and fun the mustache itself looks. You shake your head, turning away, and--

Where _are_ you? There was just a door in front of you, and now you're in an endless void: only you, and the line of lights leading you to...Mark.

A painting of him, at least, and the only painting with its eyes intact. You can hear his voice clear as day, though he's saying words you know he's never said to you, dressed in clothes you're both too poor to afford. But as you approach the painting, almost desperately, his voice distorts horribly and the eyes of the painting darken until Mark's face looks demonic.

_Same snake, different skin_, another voice hisses, and the painting crumbles before your eyes.

The voice is still speaking to you, and you turn to see a man in an all-white suit, hands behind his back as if he's been waiting for you. He looks familiar--he bears a striking resemblance to your partner, that must be what it is--but the closer you look, the more differences you see. He's too tall and thin, by a hair. No smile lines around his eyes. He holds his hands together often, like he's trying to keep himself from lashing out. Mark is so _open_, and looking at this man is like looking at a closed door--no, like looking at a _wall_.

When the man speaks, you don't hear it so much as feel it; the very air around you resonates under his tone. The creaking wood and the blurred colors on the sides of your vision are almost nostalgic, though you can't for the life of you think why.

The man speaks of you and Mark as if he knows you. Though he never refers to Mark by name, there is no one else who he could be referring to, speaking in such a disdainful way. Your head hurts. To you he is almost sympathetic. Almost.

Suddenly you've moved from standing across from the man at a small bar to sitting across from him at a desk. Something about the desk triggers something in your psyche, a familiarity with something that is to come instead of something that's already happened. The recognition scares you.

He sets the box, flaking off bits of fractured reality, onto the desk and asks if you want to know what's really inside. You don't know if you do, but he tells you where to look to find out anyways. Clues, he says, hidden in the events of your heist. But you don't know what you're looking for, and you don't understand how you're supposed to find those clues if the heist is already over. He's holding the box that you stole, so what else is there to--

Your eyes cross, your vision splits, and you fall back into--

You're in front of the museum. Mark is going to be on the upper floors waiting for you soon; that's where you'd arranged to meet.

You'd better get up there. You've got a heist to pull off.

It all feels new. The watch synchronization, the impressive feats of acrobatics, the guard takeout. But when Mark throws off the case and grabs The Box, and you see that distortion you remember. You remember the sewer, and the paintings, and the snake with different skin. A subdued panic wells up inside you. You don't even flinch when the alarms go off, and you don't hesitate to tell Mark to go back to the sewers. The man you saw before...you have to confront him.

You don't know if the man in the white suit is really telling you the truth. He was right to imply that you'd have to go through the heist again, it's true. But for as long as you remember knowing Mark, he's been honest and trustworthy, if a little goofy. Even so, you can't shake the image of a crimson python, waiting patiently to wrap its body around yours and squeeze.

The deja-vu is sickening. Everything is exactly the same, exactly how you remember it, down to the pieces of barrel trash stuck in Mark's clothes and the volume of screaming coming from the dark tunnel. This time, when you enter the tunnel, you don't hesitate to split up with Mark as soon as possible. You know the way this time, and all you have to do is run back, and ask White Suit what the hell--

A sick crunch makes you turn back around. Mark's on the ground, with a crocodile's jaws around his throat. Oh.

You stumble backwards. You feel like you're about to faint, but before your head can hit the wall, you're back in front of the museum and Mark is going to be on the upper floors waiting for you because that's where you'd arranged to meet.

_Fuck_.

This time you can feel the way that time and space are already skewed to accomodate you. The museum morphs around you, and the watch on your wrist is completely unreliable as you jump from area to area in mere seconds. Everything--the comedic incompetence of the guards, the witty quips, Mark's mere presence--feels more and more artificial. But you're powerless to change the flow of the Heist, only to spectate, and play your part, and make a choice between two things when it's required of you.

Mark takes The Box and smiles at you, and your stomach turns. The alarms go off. You tell Mark to take the sewer route.

You're going to find these clues, goddamnit, and then White Suit has got some explaining to do.

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't the best, most coherent thing I've ever written, but comments and kudos are appreciated, and (as always) I hope you enjoyed the story! Please, I need someone to talk to about this masterpiece, so if you have any thoughts about AHWM that you wanna share, from theories (!!!) to new egos (do they count as new egos? I hope so) to "'Men only want one thing and it's disgusting' -- Darkiplier 2K19", lemme hear about it!


End file.
